


Last First Kiss

by mldrgrl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: The result of a few requests for a fic about Scully dealing with dying and post-Never Again/Ed Jerse fallout.





	Last First Kiss

The appointments were on the calendar for the third Thursday on the month for six months, not a secret, but they were simply marked “Scully - doctor,” like they were run of the mill check-ups and not aggressive chemotherapy. Every third Friday was marked “Scully - out of office.”

Mulder did his best not to be too solicitous, wished her well when she packed up her things before lunch, made lame jokes about how much he’d get done without her ripping apart his theories for a day. He didn’t know how she spent her weekends after those appointments, she could be intensely private about certain aspects of herself, her health being one of them, but it was obvious from the paleness of her cheeks, the shadows under her eyes, and the constant tremor her body seemed to have come Monday, that she suffered.

He wished she wouldn’t push herself so hard, but then again, she was a fighter. He had to admit he was a bit in awe of her determination not to let such a grim diagnosis stop her from doing anything. It had certainly stopped him. Though she didn’t know it, his free time was mostly devoted to finding answers. He didn’t care who he had to go through to find the men who gave her this disease. If they knew how to give it to her, they knew how to take it back.

As the months went by though, the nosebleeds only got worse and at a certain point, she’d even stopped demanding that he not look at her when she did her best to clean herself up or given him dirty, ungrateful glares when he brought out the packet of tissues he’d started carrying around in his breast pocket and slipped them into her hand. She’d stopped locking the connecting doors of their motel rooms or trying to disguise the sound of her retching in the middle of the night by running the sink at full blast. The last two times, she’d even let him kneel beside her and dab her cheeks and the back of her neck with a cool washcloth as she limply clung to the side of the toilet. 

If he wasn’t scared before, he was now. He could persevere as long as she was, but the moment she looked up at him with a tired, resigned gaze that told him he was finally allowed to see her like this because it didn’t matter anymore, he knew she had given up. And now, he was desperate for those answers.

Appointment number five loomed like a thundercloud. Mulder was tense all week and Scully was quiet. Time moved like molasses Thursday morning. He tried to focus on the expense report for their last case, but his mind kept wandering to ways he might offer his services to help her through the weekend. Even with the minutes dragging by, suddenly she was shutting her computer down and he hadn’t come up with anything better than, “if you need anything, you know you can call me.”

Scully left with a murmured “see you Monday,” and he chickened out on saying anything more than a soft goodbye. He bit his lip and as soon as he heard the elevator ding and the doors close, he choked on a quiet sob he’d been reigning in. As quickly as he let his emotions overtake him, he pulled himself back together and pounded a fist against the top of his desk. Scully was out there bravely fighting a losing battle alone and he wasn’t helping her by crying at his desk. It was time for his check-in with the Gunmen, who were following up on leads in his stead.

But, the boys had nothing for him. Nothing new, anyway. Mulder cursed. He was pretty sure his best bet was the black-lunged sonofabitch that seemed to pull all the strings from every direction and he’d been trying to lure the old man out of hiding for weeks to no avail. There had to be something he could do.

He stayed at the office well into the evening, poring over his files for some connection he might have missed. There was so much there and yet nothing at all. He was just digging deeper rabbit holes with every file. He finally went home when he felt like his vision was becoming too blurry to ready anything further, but he was back at it again before the sun even came up. Strewn across his desk and the floor was Scully’s abduction file, the files on Max Fenig, Duane Barry, the women in Allentown, the personnel file he’d poached on Alex Krycek, and others bearing the slightest hint of alien activity.

Halfway through the day, it dawned on him that maybe he should change his tactic. He wasn’t a religious man, but Scully was a religious woman, and there were examples of miraculous recoveries all over the world. He gathered up the mess he’d made and made another printing out reams of research on holy sites and unexplained recoveries from illnesses. Amongst them all, he found one that appealed. In fact, it excited him so much that he found himself grabbing he jacket and driving to Scully’s apartment with a hopeful flutter in his chest.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking though, knocking on her door that Friday evening. He hadn’t even gotten a good look at her before he was asking her if she’d ever heard about the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes. She answered his knock in a pair of snow-white flannel pajamas that were rolled up at the sleeves and ankles. Her face was almost as white as her sleepwear, aside from the hollow grey smudges under her eyes. Her eyes themselves were so thoroughly bloodshot it looked like it might be painful just to keep them open.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, taking her in. “I didn’t mean to...to…”

She blinked slowly at him, like a sleepwalker still in a dream. “Our Lady of Lourdes,” she repeated in a quiet slur. “In France.”

“Yeah. Yes, France.”

“What about it?”

“Um…” 

“Sorry, I need to sit down.”

“Don’t apologize,” he answered, following her to the couch. 

He glanced around. There was a blanket waterfalling off the couch, crumbled tissues scattered across the coffee table, and a basin strategically placed on the floor beside the couch, just below the spot where the impression of her head still lingered on a pillow. Scully pushed the blanket out of the way and folded herself up like a sheet of origami into the empty corner of the couch.

“I should go,” he said.

“Are you going to tell me the story of Saint Bernadette?” she mumbled.

“You know it?”

“Of course I know it, Mulder.”

“Oh.”

“You can tell it to me anyway. I like your stories.”

“You do?”

“Sit down.”

Tentatively, Mulder took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. He surreptitiously slid the basin away from his feet and picked up a closed photo album that was wedged beneath the back cushion.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Photo album.”

“Well, yeah. Are they of you?”

She nodded.

“May I?”

She nodded again. He opened the book and on the first page was a black and white mugshot of a swaddled newborn with a pinched face. Next to it was the classic, naked baby on a bearskin rug photo that every parent seemed to think was necessary. He had one of his own somewhere. He chuckled to himself.

The next pages were a hodgepodge of Scully family photos. There was a pensive looking toddler Scully on the lap of her smiling sister, both with loose red curls and matching baby blue dresses. There was all four Scully children, the boys in sailor suits, the girls in navy blue pinafore dresses standing in front of a docked ship. There was Scully blowing out eight candles on a birthday cake. There was a professional photo of Scully from the waist up in a white lace dress and a white veil, looking upwards with gloved hands clasped in prayer. 

He turned to a page of school photos, all eerily similar, the progression of time marked only by the changes in Scully’s face and the length of hair, but the constant being the dark blazer and plaid skirt of a Catholic schoolgirl. She only smiled in one, which he guessed to be about third grade, the rest a study in concentrated seriousness.

And then there was a photo that made him stop and bring the album closer to his face. “Scully,” he said, squinting. “Was your mom a triplet?”

“No,” she said, with a quiet laugh. “She was the middle of three girls. All a year apart.”

“I mean, they look...identical.” And they really did. He saw three Margaret’s in a line with their arms around each other, same dark curls, same shape of the jaw and brow, same red lipstick, even.

“The one on the right is Aunt Kate, the one on the left is Mary Pat.”

“Kate. Katherine? Is that where your middle name cames from?”

“Nope. Mary Kate, Mary Margaret, Mary Pat. Only Aunt Mary Pat uses the Mary.”

“Wait, so your mom and her sisters are all named Mary?”

“Technically, sort of.”

“What was your grandmother’s name? Mary Magdalene?”

“Angela.”

“Oh.”

“Mary Angela.”

Mulder chuckled.

There were a few more pages of family photos and then they changed into pictures of places and people who he assumed were friends from high school or college. There was a photo of Scully with long wavy hair holding a sleeping baby as a priest touched its little bald head.

“Your godson?” he asked.

“Mmhm.”

He flipped a few more pages. There was photos of a cabin in the snow, of Scully in cold weather gear holding a string of fish, of a silver Volkswagen Rabbit, and a slew of photos of a beach and a lighthouse.

“Where’s this?” he asked.

“Point Loma. It was one of my favorite places as a kid.”

“And who is this?” He turned the photo on the next page towards Scully, of her pressed cheek to cheek with a fair-haired man with freckles across his nose and forehead.

“His name is Ethan.” She sat up a little reached out to touch the photo with her fingertips for a few moments and then she curled back into the corner and made a small noise in the back of her throat.

“What?” 

“Ethan was the last relationship I was in.”

“Oh.”

“It didn’t last long. Three months, I think. I don’t know, it just occurred to me that...I guess I always thought I’d have more time to…”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Nothing. Ethan will have been the last man to love me, even for a short time.”

A protest formed on Mulder’s tongue, but he held it back and looked at the picture of Scully and her ex-boyfriend again. Maybe if things had worked out with this Ethan character, they never would’ve even met. Or with that other guy, that Jack Willis guy from that case a few years ago. Maybe if it had worked out between them, she wouldn’t be here now, though he can’t imagine Scully and Jack as having ever been very good together. He really didn’t want to think about it, either.

“And Ed Jerse,” she said.

Mulder snapped to attention at the mention of that name and looked over at her. “What about Ed Jerse?”

“Ed will be my last first kiss.” She snorted softly and closed her eyes, brows knitting together slightly. He took a glance at her mouth, at the dry, cracked lips that bastard had been lucky enough to touch. It made him sad and angry.

“You do have time, Scully,” he said, emphatically.

“No, I don’t, Mulder.”

“Yes, you-”

“I don’t.” She opened her eyes and leveled her gaze at him. “Mulder, I’m dying. You know it as well as I do, you just don’t want to face the truth.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse. The tumor hasn’t changed and the chemo has just made me sick. There isn’t anything left to do. I know this is hard for you, but it’s just a matter of time. And I won’t be making a pilgrimage to France to pray to the Virgin Mary and drink from healing waters, if that was your bright idea.”

“Why not? Why not try everything we can?”

“I would rather spend the time that I have left doing the things I love. I love my job and that’s what I want to do for as long as I’m able.”

“I can’t accept that this is the end, Scully.”

“You’re going to have to.” Her eyes welled with tears, but didn’t spill over.

Mulder looked away and closed the photo album. Scully slumped against the couch and shivered. She hugged her arms across her chest and curled up even tighter. If she got any smaller, she’d disappear.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder whispered, slipping off the couch to his knees. He shuffled over to Scully’s side of the couch and put a hand on her arm, leaning close. “It’s not over until it’s over. Ethan isn’t the last man to love you, I am. Maybe you don’t think it’s the same, but I do.”

“Mulder…” She unraveled enough to put a hand on his cheek. “You don’t have to.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I...I know.”

He leaned into the palm of her hand for a moment and then reached up to cup her face with both hands. “You’re not dying,” he whispered, just before bringing his lips to hers. “There’s time,” he said, pulling back before moving in again. “Don’t give up.”

The three kisses he pressed to her mouth were soft and chaste, but they were the most heartfelt and tender kisses he'd ever shared with anyone. He felt her tears running down between the webbing of his fingers and he brushed them away with his thumbs. She held his wrists as he placed whispersoft kisses against her closed eyes and wet cheeks.

“I’m going to do everything I can for you,” he said. “Everything.”

“I know.”

“Fight.”

She nodded. He stroked the back of her head once and kissed her temple before rising. As much as he wanted to stay, he had work to do and he needed to get to it as quickly as possible. Maybe he could get her to hold on a little longer, but in his heart he knew he was running out of time.

The End


End file.
